


lumière

by stelian



Category: Daughter of Smoke and Bone - Laini Taylor
Genre: Drabbles, F/F, F/M, spoilers up to DoBaS, very slight self-harm mentions if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:37:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3500393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelian/pseuds/stelian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sometimes they look at each other and they don't see the present. sometimes they look at each other and they see what they could be, what the world was, and all that they lost. (a series of disconnected drabbles)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in memoriam

**Author's Note:**

> These were a bunch of drabbles I wrote about two years ago and posted on FF. There's really no continuity.

It's not just her death that kills you.

That's part of it, of course. A lot of it, really. Because you can't get it out of your head, the image of her on that scaffold, still so brave and oh, so strong, her gaze showing no fear and no sadness but just pure _determination_ , and- and her neck, stretched so vulnerable, and the clatter of her horns on the ground and-

_(and why didn't she just let you die there because then you'd be dead and she'd be alive and, godstars, she was so lovely and so pure and she should be alive right now but)_

And it's also going back, watching these people walk with heavy feet but no regrets, killing the chimaera that they think are beasts and, yes, perhaps they are, but they don't even think that it's possible for there to be peace, for this goddamned war to finally be over.

_(but they are beasts, they have to be, they stood there and cheered and no one protested and no one said anything, they just stood and watched and didn't spare a thought)_

And it's seeing how they look at you, how they know that something happened and how they ask but you can't tell them, because they'd surely not keep your secret and you don't think you could talk about it anyways, because you can't even think about it without digging your nails into you palm just to feel  _something._

_(maybe she's alive maybe they found a way to resurrect her but no they couldn't she was a traitor, no one would ever do that)_

And it's pretending that nothing changed but everything changed and going back into that life, that slavery in all but name, and killing chimaera again and watching the count piling up because you don't want to but you  _have_ to and they killed her, didn't they? They killed her and they deserve it and they were just beasts, after all, and there was no such thing as harmony with lesser beings like that because it would be worthless on them anyway.

_(you don't feel much anymore, you try not to, because that's all that caring does. it makes you blind and stupid and all it does is rip up the shreds of a life that you might have had and turns your lungs to stones that don't extend and your heart to a crystal that doesn't even beat.)_

They will burn.

It is all they deserve.


	2. nightmares

Sometimes she has nightmares about her own death.

They don't come often, but when they do they're bright and vivid and just so  _real_ , unlike Madrigal's memories that just feel like words off of a page. And in those dreams it's her and it's happening and it's all of those fears, an unwillingness to die, a fear of what was to come, a life full of love that she doesn't want to leave behind.

Usually, they're just her execution, played out again and again. Sometimes there are minor changes, like the time when it was not a hooded executioner but Akiva who killed her and the time when it was not beheading but dismembering and she lay there in mind-numbing agony until she finally died and the time when it was not Madrigal but Karou and she died by Thiago's hands again and again, and she woke up from that one screaming and shaking and with the memory of his blood on her hands again.

_(and then she'd tried again and failed to look Ziri in the eyes, even if she knew he wasn't Thiago in anything other than body, but her memories were deeper than scars and no amount of scrubbing would wash them out.)_


	3. soldier girl

There were times when Liraz was amazed at Karou. It was odd, because whenever she'd pictured herself meeting her, she'd always imagined… not what she was faced with.

Of course, it had all been in her head. She'd always imagined Karou as an ugly girl, who thought of no one but herself and just couldn't see, and she knew fully well what she was doing again and again to Akiva.

Not this girl who seemed so strong and yet so fragile, who had offered to revive her brother until she realized it wasn't possible. Not this girl who had a brokenness to her that was lodged deep inside her skin, something buried so deep that was utterly wrong that it wasn't even obvious unless you were looking it.

Liraz hadn't been looking for it.

She'd stumbled upon it.

They'd interacted rarely, just in passing communications and even that was no more than a terse nod shared between them. Neither of them cared to reminisce on the circumstances that had first brought them together.

_(the thought itself was a breath caught in her lung, a heartbeat stopped without warning, and she'd look up and search the air for his easy smile, the happiness that always lit his face even though there was no way it was real all of the time)_

But one time Karou had walked by her, and Liraz had turned her head just slightly and by mistake she'd caught a glimpse of the bruises on the girl's arm and it had stuck with her, weighing on her mind like a wandering fly.

Because Liraz had bruises just like hers, but unlike Karou's they were not for a grander cause, from a great and terrible responsibility that weighed her shoulders down. It was true that some were from the battles that she had always fought, had been born to fight, but-

But more were from a crippling not, an emptiness in her life and an inadequacy, too, because what was Liraz, anyway, but just a soldier who had been born for precisely that and nothing else?

She had lived fifty years of war and would probably live more. She had been born a sword and not a person, nothing to be considered living or worth anything more than a slave. She had killed and she had stood back and let the violence continue even if she hated it so, so much.

She had watched her brother die and had stood there for seventeen years without so much as trying to help anything.

So why did her life even matter?


	4. the wolf and the angel

"Where's Karou?"

"Out."

"Oh."

She was sitting at one of the entrances to the Kirin caves, legs stretched out in front of her, only partially enjoying the sun. Liraz had always preferred rain, or at least clouds: something about sun always made her unhappy.

Well.

More unhappy, that was.

"And… Akiva?"

"Out, also. Haven't you seen them always leaving together?"

"I've had… other things to deal with."

And, to her surprise, he sat down beside her.

Ziri- or, Thiago, as Karou had repeatedly instructed her to remember.

They'd avoided each other, as the seraphim and chimaera always did. There were separate sections for both of them, and no one really ever challenged that. It didn't matter that the war was over, or that they had a reason to work together for now.

Lifetimes at war left scars that didn't erase that easily.

Even though Ziri seemed relaxed in her presence, Liraz couldn't help but glance down at the hands that were splayed on the ground, palms down. As if that would keep them from turning towards her.

He had plenty of reason to.

"You seem… anxious," he said, his voice hushed. Liraz noticed him glancing over his shoulder infrequently, as if making sure that no one was around. Of course he would. Seeing the Warlord's son willingly interacting with a seraph would not help him at all.

"Really. I hadn't noticed." It was rude, and she knew that, but when did rudeness ever matter to her? She was Liraz, the feared and fearless. What did feelings matter to her?

Still, for not the first time, she found herself wishing she could retract her words.

And then he broke the awkward silence. "Your name is Liraz, right?"

"Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't. I just… wanted to know. I mean, make sure. You know?"

"Not really." A pause. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" He looked taken aback, as if her comment had surprised him. Liraz sighed.

"Talking to me. Being nice to me, I guess. You're a chimaera. I'm not. It's not exactly something that's normal, by any standard. And, I mean, I get that you're not Thiago. I just don't understand why you're doing… this." She buried her face in her hands. Words were not something that came easily to Liraz, especially when she was trying to explain her thoughts like that.

Oddly, though, Ziri seemed to understand. "No, it's fine. I understand. I just… want to make things right. Karou told me once about the things they dreamed of and I… agree. And then I thought that you looked lonely, and I sort of decided-"

No.

This was not what she did.

Liraz stood up, unfurling her wings, which effectively cut him off with a spray of sparks. She took off without a word, only sparing one glance back.

And then she stood on a ledge and screamed at herself for her stupidity.


	5. all the children

Every morning, they'd walk up the hill, and then they'd drink tea together in the shade of the massive willow tree. They never knew where the tea came from, or how the table got there, or even who planted the tree, but somehow, they never questioned it. Why did it matter, anyway? They were both dead. There was nothing for them to worry about.

When he'd met her, she had been tenser, obviously uncomfortable in his presence even if there was no way for her to even have heard of him before. Still, the way she'd stood straight as a soldier, entirely still, fire-colored eyes lit with tension, gave her away. And why wouldn't she be tense? It didn't matter if the Stelians had no part in the war; he was obviously chimaera, and she was not, and that was enough to impede any relationship.

It didn't matter if Brimstone had only seen Akiva for a few fleeting moments at Madrigal's execution; the resemblance was immediate. It was the eyes that gave it away more than anything. Bright, fiery, and so alive with an unmatchable ferocity.

Now, she was easier with him, even if her smiles were still rare and her face always seemed lodged in some sort of deep, dwelling sadness.

They always sat on the hill because it was the perfect place to watch. The sky acted as a screen of sorts, and every day, they watched the world and the war, even if they rarely focused on that.

"You should be proud of her," she said once, gazing off into the distance. "It doesn't matter which one you're referring to. They're both so strong, and so… intelligent, too. You've raised her well." It was then that she'd held her cup tightly, and she'd say softly, almost to herself, "I wish I could say the same."

And then he'd responded with, "There were times when I was too hard on her, Karou. I feel horrible now, but I was always so afraid for her. I wish I just could have let go and let her live more."

She'd responded only with one of her smiles, the sort that sent her eyes glowing and lit her entire face for only a few seconds. "Well, I don't think you put any lasting damage on her." She'd gazed again. Festival had a tendency to do that, as if part of her was still attached to her world and not… wherever they were now. "They're incredible. Both of them. Ours, I mean. I never would have thought…"

"That it was possible for an angel and devil to fall in love? Neither did I. But… I always knew there was something different in Madrigal. And your son… he's always had so much potential."

The smile in her face fell, as it tended to when he was brought up. Brimstone was content with his death, even if he hated to have left Karou alone. He could tell, though, that Festival was still not over hers.

And then she said, quietly, "Do you think it'll work? Their dream?"

Brimstone smiled at her, and he said, "I believe anything is possible, especially with those two. We've raised them well, and I believe that soon change will happen, somewhere."


	6. forgotten son

was it really that long ago that someone took your hand

and showed you how to love

with shy thoughts and distant touches

stories exchanged under the gaze of twin moons

meetings in the dark of night

in the temple of a goddess

back then, when there was goodness in your heart

and joy flitted in the air with the fireflies

before the splinters took her head and the wood shielded your skin

was it her fault or yours

that the air filled with wings one night

and the blood ran in rivers

when you reached for her and she screamed in your eyes

and in the days that followed

was it she who died

jeered by those who shared her blood

or you

who stared and stared and did nothing to save her

oh weep now, you forgotten son;

for all you have now is a dream deferred

and a soul bound in shackles


	7. tomorrow

My time with you is nearly over.

Tomorrow marks your fifth year, and it's always on that day, that awful day, that they come, yelling and swearing and laughing. "Akiva!" they'll yell, and I'll step forward like a sheep and hand you over, never saying a word, never stepping the slightest bit out of line.

If tomorrow goes the way I plan it to, that will not be what happens.

A few months ago, I doubted we would ever get to this point. Disease spreads madly in this filthy, small harem overflowing with women and children, and slaves are only sent in monthly to clean it out. I don't know what it was that grasped you tightly, but I held you tightly while your breath wheezed and you cried because you couldn't understand what was happening to you.

It was bad enough that I was willing to beg for medicine, to… to  _lower_ myself to them, somehow, in exchange for your life, but they never relented, and the nights went on and on and you got worse and worse. It was only with the help of another woman, young and empire-blond whose body was often gazed upon when she nursed her daughter, that they relented and you even began to improve.

I spent days then trying to ease the pain in her legs from when they decided they were finished with her, but it was the bleeding wound on her head that killed her weeks later, and then her daughter clung to her neck and refused to let go until thrown off by the guards whose faces she couldn't even see.

That girl. What was her name again?

Oh, right. Liraz. They came for her a few days ago, and she stepped forward alone, no mother to hand her over, and there was a sorrow in her blue eyes that I longed to coax out of her.

It's night right now, and you lean against my chest, your arms wrapped around my neck. Your breathing is soft, as it always is, and if I could see your face right now, it would be etched with a peacefulness that never crosses it. You're a worried child, with orange eyes perpetually opened wide with a fear that you never speak of, because even at your young age you've seen things that children shouldn't see.

You've watched children die of preventable illnesses. You've watched women die from wounds they got from protecting themselves. You've watched prodigious guards enter daily and choose the broken women for their day. You've seen the way the mothers never look up from their children, how they hold them close because they're the only thing that can tether them sometimes.

I can only imagine it will get worse. For you, and for all of them. But especially for you.

You're Stelian, and it's obvious on your face. If the dark skin wasn't obvious enough, your eyes burn bright like twin flames, the color that's universally known for our people. And even though no one will mention your race to you, or will even be informed of it, they will realize it, and you will be given grief for it. Already I've been spat at and insulted too many times to count.

It's the one time that my race is my savior: when they sweep the room in the mornings, their gazes always sweep past me. To them, I am foreign. Alien. Untouchable.

But, my son, I have faith in you. I have the utmost faith in you, and I am not afraid for the choices you will make. You will not be a player in the background of this turning world: your role will be important, and will not be forgotten, and you will be so much more than you know.

Those were the words spoken by the mystic that I spoke to days before the capture that led me here, and he has never been wrong once.

I'm not trying to say that it will be easy, because it won't. They will try to convince you that you are somehow subhuman because of the conditions that led to your birth, and there will be pain, and there will be sorrow, and there will be heartbreak beyond heartbreak.

Tomorrow, I will be expected to hand you over and either stand docilely or weep. Either way: submit, and be weak and powerless, as women are expected to be.

I will not.

I will attack, and I will try to kill, if possible. I will not further their misogyny, their views on anyone beyond themselves.

I will attack, and I will probably die for it, but what does that matter, when the alternative is living as a slave meant to produce weapons wrapped in flesh and service ornamental guards? I'd rather die with a fight than live more years this way.

Tomorrow, both of our lives change forever, and you will be taught not to think, not to care, not to feel, that you are a product of the empire and nothing but a disposable sword meant only to kill. And that's false.

You are not his.

You are not mine.

You are your  _own._


End file.
